


Saltwater

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23466406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Heartbroken and unsure of her next move, Clarke ends up back at her family's beach house in Arcadia for the first time in years and decides to take the first job that she's offered. She figures that maybe a fresh start could be good for her. That is, of course, before she finds out that her ex-best friend's obnoxious older brother just so happens to be her new boss.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 19
Kudos: 100





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If the one thing losing my job has been good for so far it's all the free time I suddenly have to write. Just kidding, I have a toddler so free time is just an illusion at this point. Anyway, here's something for you guys that I recently had the inspiration to finally flesh out. Please let me know what you think! Enjoy.

When Clarke wakes to the sound of seagulls and waves, it takes her a long moment to realise that _that can't be right_. Her head is pounding, there's a bitter taste in her mouth and she's quite certain that this is the worst hangover she's had in a long time. Maybe auditory hallucinations are a symptom of alcohol poisoning.

She opens her eyes blearily, grimacing at the early morning sunshine filtering in through the half-opened window shutters. Groaning, she thinks about how _that can't be right_ either, because she's got heavy black-out curtains in her bedroom, not shutters, and belatedly she realises she's most definitely not in her apartment in Boston.

It takes her another long moment to recall her blur of a journey yesterday – how she had ended up at her family's beach house in Arcadia after driving for almost nine hours straight and had proceeded to finish off two bottles of expensive wine she found in her mother's old not-so-secret secret hiding place. Her stomach churns mutinously at the memory, and she vows there and then to never touch a drop of Chardonnay ever again. It's not like she's ever been much of a wine lover, anyway, but last night she had been unable to think of a single reason why drowning her sorrows in alcohol was a bad idea.

Apparently, she'd also failed to really think about why coming to the beach house after all this time could also be considered a bad idea, but she's here now. 

Clarke allows herself to wake up slowly, not having anywhere to be for once seeing as she's four or five entire states away from her day-to-day life. Her memories of the past 24 hours come back to her at the same sluggish pace – how her advisor had sat her down and kindly told her that she wasn't getting the grades to realistically be accepted into any good medical schools, how she'd gone to Finn's apartment afterwards to cry on his shoulder and instead found him fucking another woman on top of his kitchen counter. Clarke groans again, the memory of his pale ass thrusting back-and-forth making her feel equally as nauseous as her hangover. She pulls herself out of bed just in time to make it to the toilet and throw up.

Yesterday her fight-or-flight response had been far too overwhelming for her to even try to process any of her emotions. She's always been good at running from her feelings, usually figuratively rather than literally, and compartmentalising her sadness and anger was something that she had learned the hard way as a teenager.

But now, with her face pressed against the cold ceramic of a toilet bowl, she admittedly feels utterly and pathetically heartbroken. In one fell swoop she had simultaneously lost the career she'd been working towards for her entire adult life, as well as the first relationship she'd let herself foolishly believe could possibly have an actual future. She vomits again, flushes the cistern and then freezes when she hears the unmistakable sound of the refrigerator door opening downstairs.

Clarke gathers herself together quickly despite the pounding in her head, grabs a plunger from the cabinet underneath the sink to use as a potential weapon, and cautiously makes her way down to the kitchen to confront the apparent intruder.

She takes a deep breath as she rounds the bottom of the staircase, really wishing that she didn't have to deal with an opportunistic burglar alongside everything else she's currently going through. Absently, she wonders whether or not she even bothered to reset the alarm when she arrived last night. Probably not. Clarke counts to five in her head, readying herself, and then she pounces into the kitchen with her plunger at the ready.

"Clarke! What on earth are you doing?" A familiar female voice exclaims at the same time Clarke stammers out a confused, " _Aurora_?"

She lowers the arm brandishing the plunger, feeling sheepish and stupid all of sudden. The older woman appraises her, bemused, pausing only momentarily before going back to sorting through the brown paper bags on the breakfast table. "Your mom called me," Aurora explains, a wry smile on her face as she puts away the last of the groceries. "Said you'd left her a drunk voicemail last night saying you were here. I told her I'd check in on you, make sure you had food to eat and that you were still alright."

"I didn't know you still looked after the house," Clarke admits, taking a seat at the table. She's deeply mortified to learn that she had tried to call her mother of all people whilst intoxicated, but she's pleasantly surprised to have Aurora here all the same. "Mom and I don't talk much anymore."

"I know," Aurora says, giving Clarke a pointed look. "Your mother and I still talk though, obviously. She's worried about you."

As a kid, Clarke used to spend every summer in Arcadia. Her dad would have the summers off from teaching at Georgetown and her mom would take Fridays off of work so that she could spend the weekends with them. Aurora had worked as their housekeeper since before Clarke could even remember, but she had always been more like a second mother to her. She was warm and understanding in a way that Abby Griffin decidedly wasn't, and Clarke had honestly missed her in the years since she stopped coming to the beach house. Seeing Aurora again now, pottering away in the kitchen like no time had passed at all, makes Clarke want to run into her arms and sob her heart out.

Instead, she pushes out of her chair and heads towards the coffee machine. If she starts crying, here and now, she'll probably never stop. "Do you want a cup?"

"I'm technically working, Clarke," Aurora laughs, busying herself with sorting the empty bags into the recycling. "But yes, please. I'm guessing we've got a lot to catch up on."

They take their steaming cups of coffee out onto the back deck to chat, the familiar smell of saltwater and crisp sea air making Clarke feel nostalgic and emotional. Even though the house itself has been remodelled from a family home into more of a generic vacation rental at some point over the years, Clarke is pleasantly surprised to find that the surroundings have changed very little. The sprawling deck, surrounded by wildflowers and tall grass, gives way to white sand dunes that lead down to the shoreline. The sky above them is cloudless and vibrantly blue.

For the first time in a long time, Clarke's fingers itch to capture the vista before her. She shakes the impulse away, turning her attention back to Aurora as they sit down on the wicker patio suite across from each other. The older woman smiles at her.

"Octavia's studying in Charlottesville now, at UVA. She loves it there. Her classes don't end for another week or so, but then she'll be home for the summer," Aurora tells her conversationally.

Back when they were growing up, Clarke had been extremely close with Aurora's feisty daughter, Octavia, who was only a year younger than her. They'd lost touch over the years, something which Clarke had always regretted happening, but it was still good to hear that she was doing well. "What's she studying?" Clarke asks.

"Sociology. She wants to be a social worker when she graduates,"

Clarke smiles, sipping her coffee. "That's really great."

"Yeah, it is. Bellamy's moved back to town. He and his friend, Nathan, opened up a bar together when they finished their service,"

"He was in the army, right?"

"Marine Corps," Aurora says, her expression a little bit melancholy all of a sudden. "He did four tours before they discharged him. Longest one was ten months – that was Afghanistan. It's such a relief to have him home and safe."

"I bet it is," Clarke agrees, earnest.

She knew Bellamy, of course, but had never really _known_ him. Mostly, he used to just ignore her very existence, seeing as he was four years her senior and had no interest at all in befriending a little kid. As they all got older, occasionally she would overhear him murmur a snide comment every now and again about how she wasn't really Octavia's friend because Clarke's parents paid their mom, but Clarke had always tried not to let it get to her because it simply wasn't true. The last summer she spent in town she remembers him being a little nicer than previous years, anyway, considering he had picked her and Octavia up from a party that one time without complaining about it at all.

All things considered, Clarke is genuinely happy to hear that both of Aurora's kids are doing well these days. She tells her this, too, and the two women watch the seagulls circling the sky for a few silent moments. It takes that long for Clarke to realise Aurora is waiting for her to explain what's going on with her.

"I'm not even sure why I came here of all places," Clarke begins, her voice a little shakier than she would have liked. "I had a really awful day yesterday and... I just got in my car and drove. It was like I was on autopilot. I didn't even realise where exactly I was heading until I saw the sign for the turn-off."

"What was so awful about yesterday then?"

Clarke swallows thickly. "My advisor told me I wasn't making the grades to realistically get accepted into any good med schools. So, yeah. That sucked. It means I've pretty much worked my ass off for three years for nothing. And then I went to see my boyfriend, Finn, to tell him about it, but when I got to his place I walked in on him having sex with somebody else," she pauses, trying to hold back tears. It's hard for Clarke to actually say it all out-loud, but at the very least she thinks to add, "Needless to say, he's an ex-boyfriend now."

"Well, I'm definitely glad to hear that he's an ex," Aurora says, taking Clarke's hand comfortingly in her own. "Has he tried to contact you?"

"Yeah, last night. He kept calling and texting, saying that he wanted to explain, so I switched my phone off in the end. I don't even remember calling my mom,"

"Well, do you even want to hear what he has to say?" Aurora asks.

"There's nothing that he could say to me that would make this better," Clarke tells her, a little surprised by her own firmness. "I won't forgive him. Hell would sooner freeze over."

She’s telling the truth, too. She and Finn had dated for five months, and as far as Clarke was concerned it had been going really well, but Finn had obviously felt like something was missing in their relationship. She didn't care to find out what that supposedly was, or why he felt the need to cheat on her, and she most definitely didn't want to hear him explain himself. Their relationship was over the second she had walked into his apartment and witnessed what she did.

"Good," Aurora agrees, squeezing her hand. "You're a beautiful, intelligent young woman, Clarke. Life can be pretty crappy at times, but you know what? I have no concerns at all that you'll find your feet. You don't need a significant other in your life to make you happy, and that college advisor of yours certainly doesn't know what you're capable of. Jake would be so proud of you, you know."

Clarke swipes at her eyes, trying her hardest not to cry at the mention of her father. Aurora's always known what to say to make her feel better, just like her dad used to. God, how she wishes he was here with them now. Being in Arcadia always brings back countless memories of him, which is why she stopped coming to the beach house altogether after he passed away. It was just too painful and raw back then. She thinks maybe it’s the same for her mom, too, that maybe that's why Abby had the house remodelled and started letting it out to happy vacationing families instead.

A large wave breaks noisily somewhere down on the beach. Clarke composes herself, offering Aurora a shaky smile. She still feels kind of crappy and kind of hungover, but talking about her problems has definitely helped a little bit. In that moment, despite the memory of her dad resurfacing, she feels like she might have made the right decision in coming back to Arcadia.

* * *

Aurora heads out a little while later, after making Clarke some breakfast and sending her for a shower to wash out the puke that was apparently in her hair. “In the nicest way possible, kiddo, you smell like a trash can,” she’d said, pulling Clarke in for a hug anyway before making her way out the door.

After eating some decent food and washing away last night’s bad decisions, Clarke feels a lot more like herself again. She throws on a plain blue sundress and ties her hair up into a messy bun, figuring that despite the deep circles under her eyes she has probably looked worse at some other point in her life. She also figures that it’s better to get the inevitable over and done with already and hesitantly turns her phone back on. 

Twelve missed calls and seventeen texts from Finn. Two missed calls from her mom. A couple of texts from Wells too, who her mother had no doubt called to see if he knew what was going on. 

Clarke sighs deeply.

She messages her mom and Wells, giving them a brief summary of yesterday’s pitiful events and promising them that, in the grand scheme of things, she’s okay. It takes her longer to write out a message to Finn, using care in her word choices to make sure he knows exactly how much of a complete asshole he is, but ultimately she doesn’t send it. Instead, she simply blocks his number and then deletes it from her contact list altogether. She feels better for it. 

There’s definitely more things she has to work out, logistically speaking - like what she’s going to do about her medicine-focused summer internship for starters - but Clarke decides to give herself the day to clear her head a bit more first. 

She certainly doesn’t need to make any more rash decisions right now. 

With nothing much else to do, Clarke chooses to walk into town. She hasn’t made up her mind yet as to whether or not she’ll be staying in Arcadia for any particular length of time, so she figures she might as well take a trip down memory lane whilst she has the chance to. It’s a better use of time than just sitting around feeling sorry for herself, anyway. 

She walks alongside the winding cycling trail that leads through the dunes towards the main stretch of beach in town, the early summer sunshine beating down on her. The familiar pier grows larger in the distance and soon enough she can make it out the old-fashioned beach huts that line the boardwalk and the postcard perfect promenade opposite. As she gets closer she can hear the musical sound of the fairground rides up on the pier and the bustle of people milling around by the seafront. 

Once more, she’s awestruck by how little this place has changed in the past six years. In a way, it’s comforting. Being here somehow makes her feel closer to her dad than she has in a long time.

Clarke spends a good hour or so just wandering around town, probably looking every bit like a wide-eyed tourist. She peruses a couple of independent art galleries, admires the cutesy cafes and even stops to take a look at the postcards on display outside a gift shop. She debates buying one, signing it with a simple _I hope you drive off a cliff and die painfully_ and mailing it to Finn, but she resolves not to stoop to that kind of pettiness.

It’s then that out of the corner of her eye she spies the little hole-in-the-wall bar tucked between the gift shop and the next storefront. There’s a _Help Wanted_ chalkboard sign perched outside of the doorway and her curiosity suddenly gets the better of her. She heads inside.

The bar is small in size, but the high-ceilings and generous lighting make it seem open and relatively spacious. The exposed brick walls are adorned with novelty signs and old black-and-white photographs from around the Chesapeake Bay area. There's a couple of tables at either end of the bar and several retro booths line the space opposite. There are a dozen or so patrons sitting around, with only one bartender she can see working behind the counter. He looks up expectantly as Clarke approaches, straightening his beanie as he plasters on what she can only guess is his best customer service smile. 

“What can I get you, miss?” 

Clarke stammers momentarily, then lamely says, “Sorry, I'm not actually here to drink.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “So you came to a bar, but not to drink. You looking for a job then?”

“Maybe,” she answers, even though she's not sure that she is. Job hunting was most definitely not on her agenda, but seeing as she's got nothing to lose she decides to roll with it anyway. A pesky voice in the back of her mind is nagging her about how this is exactly the kind of big decision she'd vowed to stay well clear of today, but she ultimately ignores it. “Bartending, right?”

“Yes, bartending,” the guy deadpans. She notices then that he's wearing a name tag - _Miller_. He sizes her up for a long moment. 

“I'll level with you,” Miller tells her, leaning across the bar top and dropping his voice low, “I've just had a guy call in sick and that means I'm going to be by myself when the evening rush hits. If you're seriously interested in working here then I can give you a trial, how does that sound?”

“What, tonight?” 

He grins at her, all teeth. “Well, could you start right now?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos and kind comments. I got this chapter finished a bit sooner than I thought I would, so here you go. I've got a rough idea of this fic being about 12-15 chapters long at the moment, but I'll see how things pan out! I'll hopefully have another chapter out soon. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this.

Clarke’s worked crappy jobs before, like most other college kids have at some point or another, so she’s mostly expecting bartending to be more of the same. 

Keeping her expectations low definitely seems like the safer option.

It’s a total surprise to her though that she actually kind of enjoys it. Miller, despite being sarcastic and a little rough around the edges, is a great trainer and takes his time showing Clarke the ropes. By the time the dreaded evening rush comes around, she’s pouring drinks and has mostly gotten the hang of using the touch-screen till. 

It’s busy and the work is fast-paced, but she still finds the time to make smalltalk with a couple of regulars and at one point Miller has her laughing so hard with some inane joke that she doubles over, clutching her sides. By the time nine o’clock rolls around, Clarke’s tired and a little sweaty, but she feels good. She feels like this is something she might actually be good at.

“So Clarke,” Miller says, gesturing her over to come and talk by the tables he’s wiping down, “You think this is something you’d like to do then?”

She leans back against the wall next to him, thoughtful. “It’s not something I ever thought I’d want to do, but it was actually pretty fun. Is it weird that I actually liked talking to the regulars?”

“You’d be the first,” he laughs. “What would you say if I offered you the job then?”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. You’re a quick learner and you didn’t smash any glasses, so I’d probably be a fool not to hire you. What d’you say?”

Clarke chews on her lip, trying to think of how to answer. This was not the plan at all - not that she really had much of a plan in the first place, but still. It would be rash to take the job, seeing as she still has no solid idea of how long she is even going to be in Arcadia for, but part of her thinks why not? 

With classes finished for the summer and having ended things with Finn, she doesn't actually need to go back to Boston anytime soon. She’d thrown caution to the wind by coming back here in the first place, so what was stopping her from sticking around and just going with the flow for once in her life? Her mom would be pretty appalled by the very idea of it, too, which Clarke would definitely get a kick out of. 

Really, there was no reason for her to say no.

So she says, “I’m in,” before she can talk herself out of it and that’s that. Miller offers his hand out to shake and Clarke takes it, smiling back at him. She genuinely feels a little giddy all of a sudden, all remnants of her hangover long gone. 

“Great. Welcome to The Outpost team! Our rotas are done already for the next couple of days, but if you can stop by at some point tomorrow then we can get the paperwork squared away and work out where to fit your shifts in, sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Clarke tells him. 

“Fantastic. Thanks again for your help tonight, Clarke,” Miller says, eyeing the mostly empty bar. He shrugs. “You may as well head out. Did you drive?”

“I walked, but don't worry I haven't got far to go,” she says, dismissive. It's not that dark out yet and she's certain there's some mace somewhere in the bottom of her bag, so she's not overly worried about making her way back to the beach house. “Thank you for the job, Miller.”

Clarke grabs her bag from the hook she'd hung it on by the bar and waves goodbye to Miller as she makes her way to the door. 

The cool night seabreeze hits her as soon as she walks outside and she instantly regrets not having the foresight to bring a jacket with her. Then again, staying out this late hadn't exactly been the plan, and besides, she's pretty sure all of her jackets are back in Massachusetts anyway. She shivers lightly, takes a second to work out the quickest route back down to the beach road and then sets off. 

“So you're alive,” Wells says the second he answers her phone call. It's a habit of Clarke's to call him (and, in the past, Finn too) whenever she's walking anywhere alone late at night. It's a precautionary pastime she's sure a lot of other women are unfortunately all too familiar with. “That's good. Is Finn still alive too, or are you calling me to tell me you've just buried his body in the woods somewhere and need me to give you an alibi?”

“That would be dumb. The police would be able to see I'd called you and then they'd trace my location,” she says, laughing lightly. 

“Very true. Remind me never to murder someone because I'd definitely get caught,” he replies. “So I hear you're in Arcadia. How's that been?”

“Full of surprises so far,” 

Wells hums on the other end of the phone. “The good kind or the bad kind?”

“Well, I got a new job today,” she tells him, sheepish. It's not that she's expecting Wells to be unsupportive, but it's still kind of crazy how things have changed so quickly in the past 48 hours. “At a bar. It was an impulse kind of thing, obviously.”

“How very un-Clarke of you. Is it a nice bar?” 

“Pretty nice, yeah,” she says. She's halfway home now, the sounds and lights of the pier far behind her. The sea air is still chilly, but she's warmed up a bit from the exercise. 

“I guess that means I'll have to take a trip down to Virginia sometime then so I can check it out in person,” Wells replies, and she can tell even over the phone that he's smiling. It's his way of saying congratulations. 

They talk for the rest of Clarke's journey home, catching up on how the last few weeks of their respective classes went and Wells mentions that he's started seeing somebody new. Her name is Sasha and he's had a thing for her for a while. Clarke's happy to hear that he's happy, and by the time she gets home and falls straight into bed, she feels a whole lot better than she had when she woke up this morning. 

* * *

The next day Clarke gets up early, with a new sense of purpose and a determination to start getting her life in order. She’s never been one to wallow in her feelings and she figures that being productive will distract her from thinking about a certain asshole ex-boyfriend. She’s pleased to find that he hasn’t tried to contact her via any of her social media accounts yet, so she takes that as a sign that her day is going to be a good one.

She makes a quick breakfast, forever grateful to Aurora for stocking the kitchen for her, and takes a indulgently long shower to wash away any last traces of self-pity.

Once she’s dried her hair and gotten dressed into a pair of shorts and her dad’s old Redskins jersey, Clarke even puts on a bit of mascara and tinted lip-gloss in an effort to further her good mood. Plus, Miller had text her whilst she was in the shower, saying his business partner would be coming in to meet her later on, so she wants to make a good first impression. She checks over her appearance once more in the bathroom mirror and then heads downstairs to find her laptop.

She admittedly feels guilty as hell as she writes out an email to the immunology research clinic back in Massachusetts, explaining how she feels that it’s probably in both of their best interests if she doesn’t intern with them this summer. The hardest part will be relaying this decision to her mom, who had personally set up the internship for Clarke, but she doesn’t particularly want to have that conversation right now. Trying not to think too much about whether or not she’s making a huge mistake, Clarke clicks send and that’s that.

It takes her a while to find a free parking space in town, but she eventually finds a perfect one just a few minutes walk away from the bar. The sun’s out again, warm and bright, as she makes her way down the cobblestone streets and Clarke even finds herself smiling at people as she passes them by. 

Miller nods in greeting when she enters the bar. It’s only a little after noon, so there are only a couple of customers in the place and there’s bluegrass music playing low on the overhead speaker system. “Didn't change your mind then?” He asks, grinning. 

“Not yet,” she replies. 

He beckons her over to take a seat on one of the vacant stools opposite him while he finishes pouring a beer. 

“Clarke Griffin,” a deep voice says from behind her, and she turns in surprise to find a familiar face at the bottom of the staircase that leads up the roof terrace. 

She can’t quite remember the last time she saw Bellamy Blake, but she’s pretty sure he had some acne and was going through a phase of using far too much hair gel. The man standing in front of her is almost like a different person entirely. The adolescent softness to his face is long gone, replaced by a strong jawline and handsome features. His dark, curly hair is longer now, almost down to his chin, and stubble frames his face. He's wearing a tight-fitting white shirt, too, which only serves to make his muscles look unfairly defined. 

All in all, it's almost criminal how attractive he looks. 

And, a bit belatedly, she realises that he doesn't exactly look pleased to see her. 

“This is my business partner,” Miller supplies as Bellamy walks over to them, and the cogs turn in Clarke's head. Aurora had said that he was living in Arcadia again, that he'd opened a bar with a friend. Clarke just hadn't realised that this was his bar. “I hear you guys already know each other, huh?”

“My mom looks after her family's beach house,” Bellamy says, eyeing Clarke scrutinizingly. She's a little taken aback by the fact that that's how he’s chosen to categorise their acquaintanceship. In her eyes, he's the older brother of her childhood friend, not simply the son of her mom's housekeeper. She tries not to visibly bristle when he says, “So what is this? Your mom finally cut you off or something?”

“Excuse me?” She huffs, flabbergasted by his rude questioning. 

“Please ignore him,” Miller interjects, throwing his partner a pointed glare, “He's just in a bad mood. Shall we head to the office to get your paperwork sorted?”

“You're not actually serious about working here, are you? ” Bellamy queries as she moves to follow Miller, raising his eyebrows at her. Before she can argue back, he turns to his friend and murmurs, “Buddy, she's not going to last two weeks. Look at her.”

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?” Clarke bites, scowling at him. 

“It means that the pretty highlights in your hair probably cost more alone than you'll get in your first paycheck here,” Bellamy says, expressionless. “I'm just trying to be realistic here, that's all.” 

“No, you're just being prejudiced and rude,” she snaps back before she can stop herself. “And I don't get highlights, thank you very much.”

“ _Prejudiced_?” Bellamy repeats. He's standing close to her now, arms folded across his chest, and she hates herself for noticing how his large biceps strain against the white material of his shirt.

Miller groans, loud and exasperated. 

“Look, Blake, I'm in charge of hiring, right?” He says, diplomatic. “That means it is my choice to hire her, highlights or no highlights. Not yours.”

“Fine, but when she quits it's on you,” Bellamy retorts, moving aside so that Clarke can get past him. 

She throws one last withering glare in his direction and follows Miller to the back office, feeling very much annoyed and a little less inclined to go through with this. 

When it comes to signing her contract of employment, Clarke hesitates for a split second.

She's not about to admit that Bellamy’s gotten under her skin, however the idea of working with him after that unpleasant interaction isn't exactly an exciting prospect. But she knows that she can't back out now because then he'd be right about her being a quitter. So she signs the dotted line, wondering what the hell she's getting herself in for. 

* * *

The more time she spends in Arcadia, the more Clarke feels at home for the first time in a long time.

Just like when she was a little kid, it takes no time at all for her to get used to the waves and the noise of the seagulls waking her up in lieu of an alarm clock. Even with different paint on the walls and new furniture, the beach house still feels like hers somehow and it helps remind her of her dad in small ways every day. 

She'd like to think he'd be pleasantly surprised that she's living and working in Arcadia after all this time too. It was always one of his favorite places in the whole world. 

Her mom calls late one evening and Clarke decides to bite the bullet, telling her about her decision to stay at the beach house for the time being and choosing to forgo her internship at the clinic back up north. Abby obviously has a few choice words for her daughter, but eventually they come to a stalemate and she just asks Clarke to check in a bit more regularly so that she can keep up with what's going on with her. Albeit a little begrudgingly, Clarke agrees. 

Miller puts her on a couple of short shifts later on in the week to start off with and she gets the chance to meet a few of the other bartenders. Harper's studying part-time to become a teacher, picking up shifts at The Outpost for extra money towards her dream wedding. She's talkative and has a good sense of humour, so Clarke likes her straight off the bat. Then there's Sterling, who's a little younger and shyer, but she gets along with him just as well. 

She's not entirely certain whether it's just coincidence that she hasn't had to work with Bellamy yet, but she's relieved all the same. She had seen Aurora a couple of times in passing at the house and she'd seemed supportive about Clarke working at the bar, so that has to count for something. All she could hope for was that by the time she did have to work with him, that Bellamy's attitude towards the whole thing will have improved.

But it's barely even an hour into her first shift with Bellamy as manager on duty when she decides that doing time in prison might just be worth murdering him. 

The only problem is that she's pretty certain that Virginia still has the death penalty and Clarke would really rather not have to put up with him in the afterlife too. 

“Don't,” says Bellamy, coming up behind her just as she's loading up a tray to put through the glasswasher. 

“I know how to put glasses on a tray, Bellamy,” she groans, “it's not rocket science.”

“Yeah, but three glasses broke inside the machine on the last cycle you ran, so I'd rather not have a repeat,” he snaps back, physically moving her away from the tray. She shakes off his warm hand from her arm, stifling the urge to cuss him out for interfering. It's maddening how easily he riles her up. 

Bellamy sighs. “Look, Clarke, I'm really not trying to be an asshole here. I get that the way I spoke to you the other day wasn't particularly nice, so I am sorry for that. But I need you to understand that you can't half-ass things here. You need to up your game if you want me on board with you being here, got it?”

She stares at him for a long moment, wanting to argue that at no point has she been half-assing things and that she's trying her damn best, however seeing as he's the boss and she's the employee it seems pretty redundant to chew him out. She definitely doesn't want to make things worse for herself. Clarke swallows her pride and nods, making her way back into the bar area before she's completely overcome by the urge to stuff his irritatingly handsome face inside the garbage disposal. 

It carries on much like this for the next few days. Unfortunately it seems like the rota pattern has changed and her reprieve from working with him is over, so it doesn't take long before she becomes well-acquainted with Bellamy's particular style of draconian management. It turns out that it's easy to tell that he was in the Marine Corps, seeing as he barks orders at her like a drill sergeant and has no qualms about dishing out criticisms wherever he feels they're applicable. And when he throws an oversized t-shirt at her without explanation one evening, Clarke's so used to his nitpicking by now that she's almost certain he's about to begin a mean tirade regarding her fashion sense. 

Instead he nods almost imperceptibly towards a group of rowdy men sitting opposite the bar and says, “If they say or do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, tell me straight away, okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees, her frown flitting between him and the balled up T-shirt in her hands. “And this?”

“So you can change your top before they start wolf-whistling,” Bellamy explains.

“What do you mean _wolf-whistling_? Did they say something about me?” She throws a quick glance over his shoulder to the group of men. They’d been drinking steadily in the bar for the past hour or so, but it’s not like they had been lewd or outright creepy towards her at any point. It wasn’t even like her blouse was any more revealing than the clothes she usually wore to work. She figures Bellamy must have overhead something she hadn’t.

“Nothing I can kick them out over yet,” he says, his jaw clenching a little. “I don’t want them giving you any trouble, though, so please just go and change, Clarke.”

She huffs in frustration, but does as he says anyway. Clarke takes her time changing in the bathroom, undeniably a little annoyed at the situation, but even she has to admit that the oversized t-shirt is a bit more modest than her fitted blouse was. 

Bellamy gives her a once over and a quick thumbs-up when she reemerges before turning his attention back to the drink he's making. Clarke settles back in beside him behind the bar and puts on her best customer service smile as she starts serving a regular. It's not like Bellamy's being nice all of a sudden per se, but it's definitely better than before. 

She feels like maybe she's starting to get on his good side. 

That is until she knocks a glass off a shelf, of course. She jumps back, accidentally bumping into Bellamy and causing him to spill the beer he was busy pouring. 

Bellamy steadies her with one hand, his face twisted into a scowl. 

She watches as he curses under his breath before turning back to the customer he was serving to apologise. Clarke slinks away to grab a dustpan and brush, feeling deflated. 

Yeah, so much for getting on his good side. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter for you guys. I'm hoping to get into a pattern of updating at least once a week, maybe twice, as soon as I get the ending of this fleshed out. Thanks again for all the kind feedback and kudos, it genuinely makes my day. I hope you guys like this chapter just as much, especially as some more characters are finally getting introduced.

It’s a sweltering hot day, and Clarke figures that it’s just her luck that she chose to come to the only garage in probably the entire county without working A/C. Clarke’s sweating in places she didn’t even know she could sweat, the flimsy material of her blue playsuit sticking to every inch of her skin whilst she waits in line. There’s still two people in front of her. It doesn’t look like things are going to speed up anytime soon either, seeing as the man at the front of the line has been arguing prices with the boy behind the counter for the past ten minutes.

She hopes he’ll give it a rest soon and either pay or leave, seeing as the boy serving him barely looks sixteen and is seemingly on the verge of a nervous breakdown at this point. But the guy carries on yammering away, going on and on about how much cheaper he can find a particular brand of tires for on eBay. It’s getting a little hard to watch and Clarke feels half-inclined to say something in defence of the poor kid.

But then a long, dark ponytail swishes out from the garage, heading behind the counter with purpose. Clarke can’t see their face properly, but the tension in the room changes almost palpably. “Fuck off and don’t come back,” a woman says, calm and commanding.

“You can’t talk to me like that!” The man practically splutters, his chest heaving. “I want to speak to the manager! Where the hell is Sinclair?”

“Sinclair’s not here today, so that makes me the manager,” the ponytail-wearing woman snarls back, “Now please do us all a favour and get the fuck out of here, okay?”

Clarke shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot as she watches the altercation. She’s half-expecting the man to kick off, but to everyone’s relief he turns and storms out of the office, knocking Clarke roughly as he leaves. She catches herself and mutters a curse that her mother wouldn’t be particularly proud of underneath her breath in his direction, then turns back around.

The kid is now serving the soccer mom that was waiting in front of Clarke, so she makes her way to the counter when the so-called manager calls out, “Who’s next?”

“Hey, I just need a tire - _Oh_ ,” Clarke’s voice catches as recognition clicks in her mind. The woman’s dark eyes narrow at her. “Raven Reyes?”

“The one and only,” Raven answers, hands on her hips as she appraises the blonde. Clarke’s certain by the hard set of her jaw that Raven must recognise her too, but all she says is, “So you need a tire change? What make and model is your car?”

“Chevy Cruze,” Clarke tells her.

Her first interaction with Raven had been, up until now at least, her last and she’d always intended to keep it that way.

Clarke had been fifteen years old, at some pool party on the outskirts of town with Octavia and had spent most of the night cozying up to a cute, older boy who surfed and liked the same Indie bands that she did. At no point had the surfer boy chosen to disclose that he was already in a relationship, so when his girlfriend, Raven, had turned up things went south pretty quickly. The night ultimately resulted in Clarke receiving a hard slap to her cheek, as well as developing a lifelong aversion to hooking up with mysterious strangers at parties.

Six years later, now standing in front of Raven once again, Clarke inadvertently raises her hand to her face as if she can still feel the sharp, painful sting of the slap.

“So you need a 16 inch,” Raven says, oblivious. “Come on, let's see your car then.”

The two women head outside to where Clarke had parked up in the forecourt. Raven is quiet for a long moment as she inspects the busted tire. Clarke absently fiddles with her sunglasses, thinking again that in hindsight she really should've chosen any garage other than Sinclair's Auto Repairs. She probably should've remembered to replace her spare last time she got a flat tire, too, but she can't go back in time now.

“Okay, let me grab some tools. I'll be back in a minute,” Raven tells her, disappearing back inside the garage, her ponytail swishing wildly behind her like a predatory animal's tail.

A few minutes pass, then Raven comes back outside with a jack and some kind of wrench. She wields it like a weapon and Clarke stands to the side as the dark-haired girl sets to work.

“I'm sorry, you know,” Clarke says before she can stop herself. Maybe the heat is starting to get to her brain. “I really didn't know you were his girlfriend. I didn't even know he had a girlfriend.”

“It was six years ago, Clarke,” Raven says without looking up, “you weren't the first girl he messed around with and you also weren't the last. I dumped Graham's sorry ass a long time ago.”

“Right,” is all Clarke can stupidly think to add.

“For the record, I'm sorry I slapped you. You weren't at fault, but I took it out on you anyway. He was a lying piece of shit.”

Clarke nods, a little stunned by the unexpected apology.

Raven finally yanks off the tire, looking pleased with herself, and heads back towards the garage. “Come on,” she tells Clarke, who follows behind cautiously. Raven dumps the tire on a workbench and heads over to a mini-fridge, retrieving two cans of soda. She chucks one over to Clarke, who only just manages to catch it.

“Thanks,” she says, relishing the coolness of the can.

“You're welcome. And Clarke? Don't sweat it over the Graham thing. We were kids,” Raven tells her sincerely, leaning back against a tall utility chest. “Men are trash, anyway. Took me a few more crappy decisions and crappy boyfriends to work that one out, but eventually I saw the light and decided to just swear off love altogether.”

Clarke takes a sip of soda and thinks this over for a moment. She too had suffered through her fair share of crappy relationships and could totally understand Raven's reasoning. Maybe the best way to avoid heartbreak was to just avoid love completely.

“I heard you were back in town, you know,” Raven continues. “Heard you're working at The Outpost, too. How'd that happen?”

“Miller hired me,” Clarke explains.

“No, I meant how'd you wind up back here. The only people who ever move here are pensioners or divorcees. You get a divorce, Griffin?”

Clarke laughs at that. “Not exactly. But I did catch my ex-boyfriend fucking another woman, so I guess you're not far off.”

“See? Men are trash!” Raven exclaims, setting her drink down to start working on changing the tire.

“I'll drink to that,” Clarke agrees, finishing off her soda.

Raven chats away whilst changing over the tires, giving Clarke a run-through of her most disastrous relationships in an animated way that has them both laughing. Clarke learns that she's good friends with Harper, Bellamy and Miller, and that Raven's on a full-ride scholarship to the University of Maryland to study engineering. Like Clarke, she returned to Arcadia after her classes finished for the summer.

Raven finishes changing Clarke's tire and they go back into the office so that the blonde can pay. “So,” Raven begins as she hands Clarke her change, “I'm having a birthday party at the end of the month and I need a wing woman. I think we've got a good rapport going here. What d’you say, Griffin?”

“What happened to you swearing off love?” Clarke laughs.

“Love and sex are different things. I can enjoy casual sex without wanting a boyfriend. In fact, it's better that way,” Raven says, “Plus all my other friends are either already in relationships or are emotionally compromised in some other fucked up way. You're single now, Clarke. Who knows, maybe you'll end up finding someone to hook up with too!”

Clarke snorts, rolling her eyes dubiously. Raven looks at her expectantly, so she sighs and says, “Fine, I’ll come, but you've got to promise you won't get drunk and slap me again.”

“Sure, I promise,” Raven laughs, waving Clarke on her way.

* * *

With all the drama of getting a flat tire and having to wait around to get it changed, Clarke is horrified to learn that she's completely lost track of time. By the time she finally gets to work she is already twenty minutes late. Bellamy looks up from where he's serving at the bar when she comes rushing in, a perilous glare on his face.

“I'm so sorry,” she stammers out before he can start laying into her, “I got a flat tire and had to get it changed.”

Bellamy huffs, unimpressed. “Didn't think to text me so I'd know you were running late?”

“I don't have your number,” Clarke states, walking past him to hang up her bag on one of the free hooks. She can almost literally feel his glare burning a hole in the back of her head.

“But you've got Miller's number,” he counters.

“I don't text while I'm driving, Bellamy,” Clarke replies, clipped. “Do you want me to text and drive?”

Bellamy rubs a hand over his face, clearly already tired of this conversation. He turns back to the customer he's serving and Clarke takes the interval in their impending argument as a chance to start tidying up in the back room, but not even two minutes later he appears in the doorway. She quashes down a groan, turning on her heel to face him.

“I said I was sorry,” she tells him, her eyes searching his stony face for any small glimmer of mercifulness. “It won't happen again, Bellamy.”

“It had better not,” he replies, “we had a big delivery this morning, so make yourself useful and take over from Harper in the storeroom. She stayed late to cover you, so you'd better thank her too.”

“Okay,”

“One more thing,” he says, blocking the doorway with his arm before she can skink past him.

“What, Bellamy?”

“Give me your phone,” he says, holding his hand out towards her. She frowns at him, but hands it over anyway and he starts typing something on the screen, “Now you've got my number, so if you're running late again you've got no excuse not to text me.”

“Fantastic,” she replies dryly, grabbing her phone back from him. He makes his way back to the bar without a second glance and Clarke heads to the storeroom to relieve Harper.

The delivery turns out to be huge and once Harper heads out, it's left to just Clarke to put the vast majority of it away. It takes forever and when she finally thinks she's finished, Bellamy pops his stupid head around the door to tell her that she's put all of the wines away on the wrong shelves. Clarke just about manages not to scream at him in frustration, but nevertheless she reorganises the wines with care and precision.

After that it seems like he's truly getting a kick out of putting her through her paces, so Clarke finds herself tasked with scrubbing the floor and tiled walls of the back room, as well as pulling apart the glasswasher to deep clean all the parts by hand. Bellamy doesn't mince his words either when it comes to critiquing her best efforts, and she's pretty certain by that point that he's either completely sadistic.

Eventually he sends her up to the roof terrace to clean out any ashtrays and water the potted plants, and Clarke is actually thankful to finally be left to her own devices.

The view from the roof terrace is beautiful, especially now that the sun is beginning to set. She can see down the street all the way to the beachfront, where the twinkling lights of the fairground rides dance across the expanse of water surrounding the pier. She takes her phone out to snap a picture, surprised when she finds herself thinking that it would make an amazing painting. It's been forever since she even picked up a brush.

With her phone already out, she sees that Bellamy has saved his number under _Boss_ in her contacts, so she decides to add a string of unflattering emojis alongside it. A notification chimes, and Clarke opens her Facebook app to find that Raven has sent her a friend request already, as well as an invite to her birthday party event. She smiles to herself.

Thankfully, she'd preemptively blocked Finn on all of her social media accounts, so she doesn't have to worry about him contacting her via them or, at the very least, seeing the photo of the beachfront she's just shared to her Instagram feed. The last thing she needs is him showing up in Arcadia. If he did, she'd probably lure him up here to the roof terrace and push him straight off the building.

It's then that a car back-fires noisily on the street below, followed by a loud yelp and a crashing sound from back downstairs. Worried, Clarke hurries back down the steps.

She finds Bellamy in the back room, clutching his hand tightly where he’s hastily wrapped a cloth around it. Blood is seeping through the material and he looks shell-shocked, not even noticing as she comes up beside him. Clarke spins, looking around the room to see where the first aid box is kept.

“What happened?” She asks him, finding the box on top of a shelf.

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move.

“Bellamy,” she says, returning to his side with an assortment of medical supplies and bandages. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Clarke. That stupid car went off and the knife slipped in my hand while I was cutting lemons,” Bellamy manages, his voice even rougher than usual. “Doesn’t even hurt much.”

Clarke takes a hold of his hand, carefully removing the bloody cloth. It’s a nasty cut, but thankfully not too deep. If she can clean it up properly then he should be able to avoid a trip to the ER. He winces as she starts cleaning it.

“I’m guessing it does hurt,” she chides, “but that’s not what I meant. You seem shaken and you didn’t even notice me come in.”

He doesn’t say anything in response and Clarke decides not to push him. It doesn’t take a medical doctorate for her to work out that the sound of the car back-firing had triggered something in his head, and she figures that she’s probably the last person he would want to talk to about what’s really going on. Instead she busies herself with tending to his cut, carefully dressing it with steristrips and bandages.

“You got better at this,” Bellamy says suddenly, then clears his throat and elaborates, “with the whole blood stuff. You used to be such a wimp as a kid.”

She glances up at him, bemused. “What are you talking about?”

“D’you remember that summer my friends and I built a skateboard ramp in the woods? You and Octavia thought you’d have at it on your bikes, but your wheel hit a rock or something and you went flying. Sobbed like a baby the whole time I carried you back to my mom’s because your knee was bleeding,”

Clarke cringes at the embarrassing memory.

“I can’t believe you remember that,” she groans, mortified.

Bellamy shrugs, giving her a small smile. At this particular moment he looks so strikingly soft and boyish, less like the obnoxious man that barks orders at her and more like the caring kid she used to know. She’s pretty sure it's the first time he's genuinely smiled at her since she started working with him. Clarke can't help but think that, even with a bit of stray blood on his chin, he looks more handsome than ever.

“I've still got the scar,” she tells him.

“You and O were always getting into trouble,”

“You mean Octavia was always getting me into trouble,” Clarke corrects, laughing lightly.

“Sounds about right,” Bellamy agrees.

For a long moment they just look at each other, smiling nostalgically. Her hand is still on his, having paused in the middle of tying the ends of the bandage in place, but she can't quite bring herself to move in case she breaks this strange truce they're somehow limboing in. Bellamy doesn't move either.

Her heart is racing a little.

“Anybody serving?” Someone calls from the bar area, causing them both to snap back to reality.

“I'll go,” Clarke offers before he can.

Bellamy nods, and she quickly ties the bandage in place before heading back out to the bar.

* * *

Thursday night rolls around quickly and Clarke finds herself on Aurora’s doorstep, a store bought vanilla cake in hand.

She’s got three days off in a row now, so Aurora had made a point of inviting Clarke to dinner. Always instinctive, the older woman had seemed to pick up on the fact that Clarke didn’t really know what to do with herself when she was alone at the beach house. She’d insisted on making dinner for them, promising that it wasn’t a pity invite. It wasn’t until Clarke had agreed to come that Aurora decided to mention that Bellamy would also be there.

The Blake house is exactly how Clarke remembered it, quaint and cosy, with a wraparound porch overlooking the well-cared for flower beds. Bellamy answers the door, greeting Clarke with a nod of his head as he moves to let her inside. “You brought cake,” he comments, because he’s always been a sucker for baked goods.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to poison you. It’s from Walmart,” she says, gently kicking her shoes off by the door.

“That’s sweet of you, Clarke,” Aurora says from the kitchen doorway, “I told you that you didn’t have to bring anything!”

“I didn’t want to show up empty-handed,” Clarke replies, following them into the living room. It’s like stepping back in time. Save for a new couch and a lick of paint on the walls, nothing’s changed at all. Even Octavia and Bellamy’s grade school photographs still sit on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “I forgot you went through a faux-hawk phase,” she tells him, smirking.

“Very funny,” he retorts, but he’s smiling too.

Clarke wonders if this is going to be a thing now, Bellamy smiling at her. Part of her hopes it might be. The other, logical, part of her feels like the two of them being on friendly terms is just too good to be true.

“So, what’s it like working at the bar?” Aurora asks conversationally.

“It’s good,” Clarke offers, trying to choose her words carefully. She doesn’t exactly want to insult Bellamy’s management skills in his own home, in front of his mother. “Busy, sometimes, but I like it.”

“Clarke’s picking things up really quickly,” Bellamy adds, surprising her. “The regulars love her and she doesn’t overpour spirits, so that’s something. She’s doing really well.”

She turns to look at him, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. Clarke figures there’s got to be some sort of catch, like maybe he’s just being nice about her because his mom is the one asking. But then he glances at her, smiling again, and she feels a little dumbstruck. She’d honestly thought that he hated working with her.

The doorbell rings before anybody can say anything else.

“I’ll get it,” Aurora says, leaving them in the living room.

“So I’m not totally incompetent, huh?” Clarke asks, raising her eyebrows at him.

Bellamy rolls his eyes, replying, “Don’t let it go to your head. You’re not totally incompetent, but you’ve still got a lot to learn.”

“Look who came to join us for dinner,” Aurora says suddenly, and they both turn their attention to the doorway.

Octavia grins back at them, dropping her backpack on the floor before launching herself across the room to engulf her older brother in a hug. “It’s so good to be home,” she exclaims, then turns to Clarke and says, “and it’s good to see you, too, stranger!”

Bellamy releases her after a beat, grinning as he pulls away. Then his gaze passes over his sister’s head to the doorway and his face falls noticeably. Clarke’s eyes follow his.

There's a tall, good-looking young man standing next to Aurora, a plethora of colourful tattoos covering his arms and some of his neck. He seems to notice their attention has turned to him and he offers them a hesitant wave. Octavia rushes back over to join him, grabbing his hand to pull him into the room, and Clarke sneaks a quick glance at Bellamy, who honestly looks like he’s about to tackle the poor guy.

“This is Lincoln,” Octavia says, her entire face lit up with giddiness. “We’re engaged!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say thank you again for all the lovely comments and kudos this story has got so far, I really appreciate it! There's finally a bit more romantic tension in this chapter, so I'd really love to hear what you guys think of it. Also as a fair warning, anything I write from now on regarding the Marine Corps is a lot of guess work and Google searches, so if I get anything mixed up then it's not my intention. Anyway, enjoy!

“Congratulations,” Clarke offers after a long beat.

“Thank you,” Octavia tells her, grinning. Her eyes flit back to her brother expectantly and there’s a palpable tension in the room. “What, Bell? Aren’t you happy for us?”

Bellamy looks the farthest thing from happy as he chokes out, “You’re engaged? To _him_? This is a bad attempt at a joke, right?”

“Don’t start,” Aurora chides, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Oh, come on, Mom. You heard what she said,” Bellamy huffs, eyeing Lincoln murderously as he says, “You do know she’s only twenty years old, right?”

“Shut up, Bellamy. I’m an adult,” Octavia grits out.

Clarke can’t help but think that Lincoln looks just as awkward as she feels, both of them standing at the sidelines whilst the Blake family verges on going nuclear.

“Did you know about this?” Bellamy questions his mom, “Shit, you did, didn’t you?”

“Of course I told Mom. I knew she’d be supportive. Turns out I’m an fucking idiot for thinking you would be too,” Octavia spits, looking every bit as pissed off as her sibling now.

“How the hell am I meant to be supportive of this? You’re throwing your life away, O,”

“ _I'm_ throwing my life away? That's rich coming from the guy who hasn't had a real relationship in years,” Octavia retorts.

“Because I'm not a total fucking idiot,” Bellamy seethes, stalking around the living room now. “I'm not stupid enough to skip down the aisle the second someone-”

A shrill alarm sounds from the direction of the kitchen, interrupting his tirade. “That’ll be the casserole,” Aurora says, then looks at Bellamy pointedly, “Come on, you can help me serve up.”

He huffs in annoyance, but does as he’s told anyway. Octavia glowers at him as he walks past her. The second he’s out of the room she lets out a long exhale, turning to smile at Lincoln and Clarke apologetically.

“That went about as well as expected,” Lincoln comments, rubbing his fiancees’ shoulder comfortingly. The way he’s looking at her is so sickeningly tender that Clarke can’t doubt the love they share. “You okay, babe?”

“I’m fine. He’s just such an ass,” she groans, flopping down onto the couch. To Clarke she says, “I’m really sorry you had to be here for _that_. Mom told me you were coming over for dinner, so I figured that, you know, me breaking the news while you were here might’ve acted as a buffer. Apparently not. It’s still really good to see you though.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Clarke tells her, sincere. “So is there a ring?”

“There is,” Octavia says, wiggling her hand out to show off a white gold band with a sparkling blue gem atop it. Clarke’s not entirely sure what stone it is, but the ring is simple and timeless. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“So beautiful,” the blonde agrees. “You did well, Lincoln.”

“Thank you,” he replies, smiling sheepishly.

“It’s his great-grandmother’s ring,” Octavia explains, lovingly grinning at him. “I can’t believe I’m so lucky.”

“Dinner’s ready!” Aurora calls from the dining room.

Octavia’s face falls and she visibly braces herself before getting up from the couch, linking her hand with Lincoln’s before heading towards the door. Clarke brings up the rear, wondering what the hell she’s getting herself in for here.

Dinner goes about as well as could be imagined. Mostly, there’s just complete silence between the Blake siblings, making the atmosphere wholly uncomfortable and awkward. Clarke’s sitting next to Bellamy and she can feel his knee bouncing up and down with pent up frustration, occasionally bumping into her own. He mouths a quick sorry to her the third time it happens and she tries to focus on her food instead of how warm his leg felt against her own.

Aurora makes conversation with everyone diplomatically, making a point of asking Lincoln questions about his work at a gallery back in Charlottesville and how the drive up to Arcadia was. Octavia seems pleased that at least her Mom is making an effort with him, even if Bellamy has decidedly chosen to give them both the silent treatment. Clarke imagines that Aurora probably gave him some sort of speech in the kitchen about how _if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all_ , like a little kid being reprimanded.

“So I hear you're working at the bar, huh?” Octavia asks Clarke at one point, glancing at her brother pointedly. Bellamy stabs at a green bean miserably as she adds, “I hear the owner is a bit of a tool.”

“He's not so bad,” Clarke says quickly, trying to remain neutral, “it's not so bad working there, I mean. I've had worse jobs.”

“Right,” Octavia says, “and how's Harvard?”

“Harvard is… Not actually going particularly well, but I've still got another year to figure things out before I graduate,” she says, “ _if_ I graduate, that is.”

“I'm sure you'll figure things out,” Aurora interjects, patting Clarke's hand in a motherly way from across the table. “And you will graduate. I have no doubts about that.”

Clarke flushes, smiling thankfully at the older women before turning her attention back to her food. The rest of the dinner carries on as before, and by the time they've finished off the vanilla cake for dessert, things are still no better between Octavia and Bellamy.

So when Clarke says to Aurora, “Thank you so much for dinner, but I'd better get home,” Bellamy offers her a ride home as an excuse to get out of there, too.

“Your place is on my way anyway,” he says, grabbing his car keys from the wooden sideboard by the front door. “Come on.”

Clarke says a quick goodbye to Octavia and Lincoln, promising to catch up with them sometime during the week, then follows Bellamy out to his car.

He opens the passenger door of his old sedan for her wordlessly and moves round to get into the drivers side. She wonders if he'll need directions, but he doesn't ask, so she just keeps quiet. He waits for Clarke to buckle her seatbelt before peeling away from the curb with speed, apparently eager to put some distance between him and his sister.

Bellamy is silently seething during the entire drive, his large hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles have turned white. Clarke can't help but wonder if he's imagining it's Lincoln's throat. She catches herself, realising that she's been staring at his hands for God knows how long, and turns her attention to the passenger window.

“Just up here on the left, right?” He asks, and she realises they’ve arrived.

“Yeah, anywhere here is good,” Clarke replies. “Thank you for driving me home.”

Bellamy pulls over but keeps the engine running. He’s absently looking up and down at the row of opulent beach properties, an unreadable expression on his face. If Clarke had to use a word to describe it, she would have to go with miserable. Maybe it’s the fact that he looks so damn sad that Clarke says what she says next.

“Do you want to come inside for a beer?”

Bellamy turns to her, clearly a little bit surprised by the offer. “Sure,” he says after a beat, surprising her right back. He puts the car into park and they simultaneously get out.

* * *

“So that was a pretty intense evening,” Clarke states, leaning against the kitchen island.

She feels a little nervous having him in her house, even though she's sure it can't be the first time he's ever been here, but all the same she's trying to play it cool. It's not so much that he's technically her boss, but more that he's _Bellamy_. This is definitely new territory.

He smirks at her like he can tell she's making a real effort to seem casual, taking a slow sip from the Coors Light she'd passed him. “I think it probably goes down in history as one of the worst family dinners I've ever had,” he says.

“Doesn't even make my top three,”

“Oh yeah?” He prompts.

“You've met my mother, right?” Clarke says, eliciting a low chuckle from him. “Need I say more?”

“Dr Abby Griffin,” Bellamy says, “definitely in the top three most terrifying women I've ever met.”

Clarke snorts at that and she's immediately mortified by the fact that she honest-to-God snorted in front of him, but thankfully Bellamy just looks amused.

She clears her throat. “Shall we sit out on the deck?”

“Lead the way,” he says, following her to the French doors.

It’s a cool, cloudless night and the sky above them is full of bright stars, stretching far out to the horizon. It’s quiet, too, except for the rhythmic sound of waves going in and out down on the beach. They sit down opposite one another, and Clarke scours her brain for something intelligent to say, something that won’t worsen his mood. She hadn’t actually thought he’d even say yes to the beer in the first place.

“Are you missing Boston?” Bellamy asks.

“I don't know,” Clarke replies, having to think about it. “I love the city and I like my college, but I feel more at home here in Arcadia, you know? It's weird. After my dad died, I really never thought I'd ever come back here.”

“I get it,” Bellamy says, nodding empathetically. “Must bring back a lot of memories.”

“Yeah, but they're good memories. Mostly, anyway. Do you ever miss being in the Marines?”

Bellamy takes a sip of beer, his gaze drifting up towards the night sky. Shadows fall across his face in such a way that he looks like a living, breathing work of art and Clarke once again has to stop herself from staring.

“Honestly? Sometimes, I guess. It wasn't just a job; it was a way of life. Took me a long time to readjust when I left, but now I'm out I don't think I'd ever go back.”

“Your mom said you got discharged?”

“Took two bullets in Syria,” he supplies. “Got an honorable discharge. They thought I was a goner, but turns out I'm stubborn.”

“Stubborn? You keep that trait well-hidden,” Clarke jokes, then immediately feels stupid for it. They can’t stand each other half of the time, and now she’s making silly little jokes about his military service of all things. She wants to mentally punch herself. “Two bullets, huh? That must’ve hurt.”

“Yep,” Bellamy says, then stands and lifts up the hem of his t-shirt without preamble.

Clarke’s momentarily distracted by the hard, smooth muscles of his tanned abdomen and the trail of dark hair that leads downwards, but then her eyes zero in on the two unmistakable circles of ugly, blooming scar tissue on his right side. Her breath catches in her throat. She can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like going through that.

“Jesus Christ,” she murmurs, lost for words.

“Beats your bike scar, right?” Bellamy teases, retaking his seat across from her.

She can’t help but laugh at that. “I don’t know, mine is pretty gruesome,” she says, hitching up the skirt of her dress just enough to show him the measly little scar on her knee, “Or it seemed that way, at least, when I was eight years old.”

Bellamy reaches out to turn her leg towards the light filtering through the back windows, so that he can better inspect it. Clarke’s skin tingles where his long fingers are lingering on her bare calf and she’s endlessly relieved that she remembered to shave her legs in the shower this morning. He smirks at her and says, “You’re right. Definitely trumps a bullet wound.”

He lets go of her leg and leans back in his seat, and Clarke forces down a mouthful of beer. She’s not sure why she feels so flustered around him all of a sudden, why she’s so aware of how close together they’re sitting. It’s like she doesn’t actually know how to be friendly around him, one on one, when they’re usually too busy getting on each other’s nerves. All her emotions are getting mixed up.

“Octavia seems happy, you know,” Clarke says after a little while. Bellamy’s expression darkens, so she quickly adds, “Just an unbiased observation here. I do think your sister’s smart enough not to go along with something like getting engaged if she wasn’t truly and completely happy, though. She knows her own mind.”

“Yeah, that’s always been the problem,” he says, sighing defeatedly. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t want to see her happy and settled, I just… I don’t want to see her get hurt, Clarke.”

“I know. You’re a good brother,” she tells him. “You care.”

“Too much, probably. Or that's how Octavia sees it at least,”

Clarke smiles at him, shaking her head. It's true of Bellamy, he does care too much - about his sister, about the bar. She's beginning to see that even though he can be a real ass at times, his heart is usually in the right place.

“I think I've really pissed her off this time,” he says, resigned.

She's about to open her mouth to say something reassuring when her phone rings loudly. It's a withheld number. “Sorry, I'd better take this,” she tells Bellamy, swiping the _answer_ button.

“Clarke,” an all-too-familiar voice says the second the call connects. Nausea rises in her stomach. Finn carries on talking, “I'm so glad you answered! You have no idea how much I've wanted to talk to you, to explain-”

“There's nothing to talk about,” she snaps, cutting him off. “I don't want to speak to you ever again.”

“You can't just ghost me,” Finn exclaims, so loudly that even Bellamy overhears and raises his eyebrows.

“Watch me,” Clarke says and hangs up, throwing her phone onto the cushion next to her. She's not sure whether she wants to scream or throw up, or both. Inhaling deeply, she looks up to find Bellamy's gaze on her, heavy and questioning. “My cheating ex-boyfriend,” she explains.

“I heard about that,” he says, “You okay?”

“Getting there,” she tells him.

“Is he giving you trouble?”

Clarke shakes her head. “No, that's the first time I've actually heard from him. Blocked him on everything else. I'm just trying to move on now.”

“Good,” Bellamy says, but he's still looking at her like he's mildly concerned.

“Someone unexpected gave me some helpful advice the other day,” Clarke announces dryly. “If I swear off love altogether then I can't get my heart broken again.”

“That is one way of doing it,” Bellamy chuckles, finishing off his beer.

“Sounds foolproof, right?”

“Right,” he agrees, bemused. “I'd better head home anyway. Thanks for the beer, Clarke.”

“Anytime,” she says lamely, like hanging out together is just going to be normal for them now. To his credit, Bellamy just smiles that soft, small smile of his as he stands to leave. At the very least, Clarke's glad that he doesn't look quite so miserable anymore.

“Enjoy your days off,” he tells her, heading towards the gate at the side of the deck. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

“Goodnight,” she replies, waving him off. She watches him disappear behind the side of the house, heading back up to the road. The fact that she hadn't really wanted him to leave surprises her, and she squashes the feeling down instantly.

She's only just getting over Finn and moving on with her life. What Clarke really doesn't need right now is for anything to complicate that.

 _Foolproof_ , she reminds herself. All her emotions are most definitely getting mixed up tonight. She gulps down the last of her beer and then heads inside, hoping that a good night's sleep will help get her feelings in-check.


End file.
